


Virtually Perfect

by Ludwigsgirl97



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, M/M, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-03 15:17:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1749245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwigsgirl97/pseuds/Ludwigsgirl97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a veteran of the Third World War, and is, like all the others, given the new virtual reality game in order to adjust him back to civillian life. When he choses the scenario of being a detective's assistant, he expects to maybe learn a bit, but he's hardly one to get attached to fictional characters. Even if they are created from his own mind. He certainly never expects to fall in love with a series of ones and zeros named Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're the Second Person Who's Said That to Me Today

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a pilot, and any future chapers will be longer.  
> un-beta'd so any mistakes are my own, and feel free to tell me if you see them so that I may correct them.

John stared at the box which sat on his old, creaky desk, gathering dust from two weeks of being unopened. The latest in virtual reality, specially designed for vets with PTSD. It was meant to ease them back into normal life without the chance that they would harm others, physically or psychologically. After all, before the third world war, when they came up with it, people who'd been in combat would have flashbacks in the middle of a mall, grab a potted plant and start hitting kids with it, screaming that everyone was under attack. There had even been deaths, they were so bad, veterans taking more kindly to their guns than to anything else. You could choose a number of scenarios that were programmed to have enough danger that your brain began associating your wartime memories, but enough normalcy that it made you realize everything was okay.

So that you would be able to forget that you were really just playing a game, this model even included adaptability, in which the entire world would shape around your choices—but only as much as the real world would. You deciding that something should be legal didn't change the congress any more than a single vote would, but you could still vote and protest and in fact on of the scenarios was running for office by starting as a lowly intern, fresh out of a college you'd never actually attended.  
His therapist, like most others in her field, had immediately set about doing the paperwork to get him one, and now that it was here, he couldn't bring himself to put it on. He wasn't one of the young twenty-somethings who'd grown up with virtual reality—he'd had good old fashioned controllers that didn't come with a 17% chance of giving someone who didn't have it already epilepsy, or a minute but still present risk of putting you in a coma because, in the end, you were giving what amounted to little more than a toy access to not only your neural functions, but also your memories, and the fears that came with them. From the monster under your bed to your sphincter, everything was connected to one wire or another when you laid in the thin, foam lined tube.

He was wary of the thing, but he also had the fear that it wouldn't work. Now, he could just pass it off as him being nearly forty, and far too old to try something like this and whatever happened to just giving me a pill and letting me sit in my government paid for flat in peace, Doc? I got shot for it, after all! But if he tried it and it didn't work then it put him in the four percent of incurable people. The ones who were a risk, and were sent to special communities where mass shootings were common because the only police there were as likely to think you were a New Soviet as everyone else in the glorified asylum. No, better to keep the excuse and avoid the doctor for as long as he could, enjoy his walks—or, rather, limps, in the park while he could see a sky that didn't have electrified chicken wire in the view.

But he'd just gotten a message saying that there was no other method of treatment, and that he would be moved to a “more appropriate living quarter” should he not choose this method, so he didn't really have a choice anymore. He opened up the box, though all it really contained was the smaller box with the code for him to print out his product. 3D printing had really hit it off in the 2010's, so it wasn't surprising when, 80 years later, it was the way products were distributed. Every home had a printer that spat out food, water, clothes, and anything else you bought with the generally universal credit. Some of the less developed nations still used currency, but Europe, Asia, and North America had all agreed on the unified currency when decades old tension with Russia finally broke and they had to be able to help each other without the fuss over which money was worth what on a daily basis. After all, did having London bombed (again) lower the pound because England's word to keep to a debt was now diminished, or did it raise it up because, after all, there were a lot less of the paper notes flitting about. To succumb to a currency which already existed would have essentially given control of the world to one nation and so, like the average science fiction game, credits were spawned. Nearly completely digital now, like their ancient predecessor Bitcoins, but without the crash, or the counterculture reputation.

It took about twenty minutes before the thing was printed out, his being an older model that wasn't high end to start with, like most of the things the military supplied him with, and wasn't half-instant like the top of the line printers that were rolling off the shelves, ironically printed by the very same things everyone would be saying was old and useless in three months. He took a deep breath, and laid inside of it, the space surprising in its comfort and space (it seemed much bigger on the inside).

As soon as he closed the lid over himself, he closed his eyes, and winced when he felt the neural connection to the machine.

_Welcome, John Watson_. A female voice which was likely supposed to be soothing said, causing him to briefly wonder if the female vets got a male voice. He wondered why he hadn't been asked what he preferred if that were the case. After all, it wasn't odd in this day an age for people of all genders and sexualities to be coming out, in ARMY greens or not.

“Er...Hi?” He responded, his own voice echoing through the dark expanse that was his un-customized world.

_Is the name John Watson acceptable to you?_ It asked, a forced question at the end.

“I suppose so.” He replied, not sure what else he'd want to be called. Unless some people preferred to keep their titles, in spite of the fact that they were supposed to be getting out of military mindsets with these things. They'd always just called him Doc anyway.

_Very well, John Watson. Please state your preferred pronoun._ So maybe it was more in tune with the times than he thought.

“He is fine.” he would have scratched his neck, but he wasn't sure his brain remembered he had a body in here—he certainly couldn't feel one.

_Very well. Before we proceed, please confirm that you are John Watson, and prefer the pronoun “he”._

“You've got it right, yeah.” He felt nervous already. He had no idea how customized this place had to be to help him, and he worried about answering something wrong, repressing something that would change the simulation and leave him unable to get better.

_We will now begin simulation customization. A number of scenes will appear before you—please select the one you are most comfortable with._

The black became a series of pictures that didn't quite make visual sense, but he could “see” them well enough. One was the deserts of Afghanistan, where he'd been stationed for most of the war, thankfully away from the harsh Winters of Russia. There were still plenty of dangers, sure, like scorpions in your morning coffee because the little buggers were everywhere, but at least you didn't hear the Americans complaining about celebrating Independence Day waist deep in snow. Not that they didn't complain plenty the rest of the year, most of them saying how they never trusted Russia after the cold war, and how the rest of the word wouldn't listen until it was too late and they were invading Poland for the seven percent which spoke Russian.

Another was the cold, frozen hellhole itself, and he could even feel the chill coming out of the white images. The sunsets were supposed to be beautiful there, but hardly worth the odd polar bear attack, or worse, actually running into a Russian infantry unit. They were hardly ones to follow rules, since they were never given enough supplies and would use any means needed to ensure that they stole them from the enemy.

The busy streets of what appeared to be New York represented a scenario which, upon further inspection was revealed to be you owning a pawn shop in which you were an expert on the guns used. He sighed, going through more and more than seemed utterly hopeless, more likely to spiral him into depression that out of it, the sight of some of them making his old scar ache. Finally, he reached one which held promise. It was the old morgue at St. Bart's hospital, though it was obviously updated from when he'd done his intern work there for his medical degree. He expected that he'd be some sort of trauma surgeon, saving the lives of lines of computer code, but what he found was interesting. It seemed that this one was about to be canceled as a choice because most of those who tried it had to reset and begin again.

_You're the assistant of a detective, as well as his flatmate. Designed for medical staff, though it could be for anyone. Warnings include high risk scenarios, as most of them, and gore._ He could handle both of those, and it was far better than putting himself in a foreign city or a war zone. He selected it, and the shock of feeling his body again was odd as he walked through the same park he always had, watching trees appear from nowhere and people he recognized filter in, ones and zeros slowly constricting and taking form to create an average day for him. Even his cane was sturdy by his side, and he leaned on it as he made his way through the path. Figuring the game, simulation, whatever you wanted to call it would figure out how to get him to Bart's, he strolled until his leg got tired. When he sat down on a bench, he was surprised to see his mate Mike sitting next to him without warning, his large frame hardly easy to miss, and likely created in the few moments John had closed his eyes, wincing in order to sit down, priming the pump of leg pain relief with a little agony as a down payment.

He was suddenly aware of the fact that he didn't have a place to stay, and as idle chat went on with his friend, or rather, the clone of his friend, he couldn't stop the fact that he was looking for one from coming out of his mouth.

“But who'd want to be flatmate with me?” That had mostly come of his own thought, though saying it out loud seemed more forced. Mike chuckled, and John frowned, wondering where the mysterious they got off laughing at him in his own therapy session.

“What's so funny?” He said, honestly a bit defensive about it. After all, there really wasn't anyone who would want to live the doctor whose hands shook too much for him to do anything and even if they didn't only one of them could be doing anything because he had a limp. Not to mention the nightmares he had almost every night, leaving him up screaming at the top of his lungs and waking up people who were on the floor below him, much less someone who shared the space with him. He did expect people, even in a simulation that prided itself of reality, to be a bit more sensitive to his secretly fragile ego.

“You know, you're the second person that's said that to me today.”


	2. 221B Baker Street

John walked into the familiar building, some of the older doctors nodding at him in recognition, though most of them held the underlying layer of pity that he had gotten used to since he'd been shipped back home with all the others who couldn't be of service anymore. So many people had come home injured that there weren't even handicap parking spaces anymore. You just had to suck it up, or manage to hire someone to do your shopping for you who had managed to make it back without permanent injury, or to avoid conscription. He hated it, being pitied. He wasn't some sad kitten on the holotelly, he was a bloody military doctor, who'd drawn and stopped blood in equal measure and was to be respected, or left alone at least, before he was pitied.

He made his way past them still with little conversation. They would later tell their friends in hushed tones how the war had made him change, and how they hadn't known what to say to him. They would lie, both to said friend and themselves, when they say how they wanted to talk to him but were afraid of making things worse, of giving him a flashback, when in reality they simply didn't care beyond the meager empathy demanded by society for an individual they'd not seen in a decade and a half, and who they'd hardly known then. As he followed Mike into the morgue, he looked around at everything.

“Bit different than in my day.” He remarked, taking in all of the technology that, to be frank, seemed a bit excessive for the place they played with dead people. He only hoped the floors above, where the living were tended to, were at least equally stocked.

“You have no idea.” He agreed, smirking. John had noticed the man in the corner, playing with a pipette and a petri dish, presuming him to be an eccentric coroner, though it was a shame his looks were wasted on those who couldn't see them.

“Mike, hand me your phone. There's no signal on mine.” Cell phones nowadays could do virtually everything. They worked better than most computers had ten years prior, had more storage than anyone had a right to use, but they still needed signal.

“What's wrong with the landline?” Just so that people in storms could still get a hold of people in emergencies, most places, especially public places, had landlines where you could call and get basic voice service. It wasn't hologram, or even video, but at least it was something.

“I prefer to text.” He responded, holding out his hand like a petulant child who was waiting for candy. John frowned at him.

“Sorry, it's in my coat.” He answered, though John had seen him put it into his trouser pocket. It could still be seen there, the outline of the thin metal touchscreen visible. Rather than start a fight, he simply grabbed his, rolling his eyes and wondering what could be so bad about letting the man use his phone that Mike would lie.

“Here, use mine.” he offered, holding it out to the man, who, finally, looked up from his work, only to accept the phone and begin ignoring them using it instead.

“Afghanistan.” The man said, and Mike smiled like the cat that ate the canary as Sherlock typed away of the hologram keyboard which had sprouted from his mobile.

“Pardon?” John asked, not quite knowing what the man was referring to, and wondering if he was being sensitive to think it was his military service.

“You served in Afghanistan.” He said, raising a brow and looking up at them as he finished with John's phone.

“Sorry, how did you...” He eyed the man suspiciously, looking to Mike, who just shrugged and kept his impish grin.

A young woman walked in before he got his answer, wearing a white lab coat and, according to her name badge, being the actual technician here, making John wonder if this man was who he was to be the assistant of. She had a cup of coffee in her hand, and handed it to the one in the trench coat.

“Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He said, apparently not one who was prone to complete sentences, perhaps being why he was one for text rather than speaking. It did seem a bit more appropriate to speak brokenly that way. “What happened to the lipstick?” At last! A full sentence.

“Wasn't working for me.” She said awkwardly. It wasn't hard to see that she fancied the eccentric, and had likely put on the lipstick to impress him only to be shut down. Much like she was about to be again.

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Mouth's too small now.” He waved his hand dismissively, and she looked on the verge of tears she was far too well versed at holding back. John was ready to tear into him, computer programs or not when he spoke again. “How do you feel about the violin?”

“Sorry, what?” John had no idea what was going on. Perhaps this was why most people didn't continue with this scenario. It had to have a bug in it.

“I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end.” He looked up from the laptop he'd been tying on, “I think potential flatmate should know the worst about each other.”

“Oh, you told him about me?” John cocked his head to the side, wondering where the joke was that Mike seemed to find so amusing still.

“Not a word.” Mike answered, smug as though he were the one with all this unbidden knowledge.

“Then who said anything about being flatmates?” John asked, wishing someone would just explain this odd situation.

“I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.” He looked at John as though he'd expected better.

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” The strange man ignored him, getting up and shrugging his greatcoat more firmly onto his shoulders and wrapping his scarf around his neck.

“I've got my eye on a lovely little spot in central London. Together we should be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash. Think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Is that it?” John was shell shocked worse than when he actually was under fire.

“Is what it?” Sherlock squinted at him, for once confused himself.

“We've only met and we're going to go look at a flat?”

“Problem?”

“We don't know anything about each other! I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name!”

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.” He explained as if this were all written on John's forehead. “I think that's enough to go on.”

He walked out of the door, John blanching after him. Somehow the man knew his entire life story, and had zoomed out leaving him apparently future flatmates with him, though he knew nothing save the man's odd social habits. He popped his head back in a moment later, dark curls bouncing with the movement.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He winked, and looked between the two of them. “Afternoon!” and with that he left.

“He's always like that.” Mike said, this having apparently been what he found so funny.

John felt a smile curl up at the corner of his mouth, his heart racing and, in spite of himself, he realized he was looking forward to meeting the man. He looked down on his phone, checking what message the man had sent. He'd had the audacity to add Lestraude, whoever he was, into John's contacts, and had simply sent “If brother has green ladder arrest brother -SH” to the man. Or woman—it sounded like a surname and could go either way.

He smiled, looking down at it when the world around him shifted. The clock on his phone read 6:45, and evening darkness was starting to fall, as opposed to London's normal grey. He wasn't in the morgue any longer, but along a street, busy with people making their way to the lives that this program had created for them. Until now, he'd almost started to forget that this wasn't the real world. That he hadn't just met his friend Mike in the park by chance and ended up in this crazy scenario.

Black-painted wood held gold lettering and the man, Sherlock Holmes, was waiting for him, giving a small wave as he arrived, knocking on the door. An elderly woman answered, looking like the least dangerous woman he'd ever met in his life. Sherlock explained that she was Mrs. Hudson, and that they would be getting the room at a discount because her husband had been charged with murder when Sherlock got involved, the man facing the death penalty in Florida.

“And I presume you got him out off death row?” John asked, a bit alarmed that he would do so, even if it was for a cheap flat in central London.

“Oh no, I assured his presence there.” Sherlock corrected with a damn near predatory smirk. That was somehow almost more alarming, especially with his potential landlady's approving countenance.

Mrs. Hudson ushered them up, and John looked around. Boxes were scattered about the room, but it still seemed like a nice place, an opinion he voiced.

“My thoughts exactly.” He said, smiling a bit and giving a quick turn, “So I went ahead and moved in.”

“After we clear out all the rubb-” John frowned when it hit him what Sherlock had said with him, frowning. “So this is all...?”

“Well I could tidy up a bit.” He muttered, going over to a few files and putting them into boxes, stabbing a pile off letters to the mantle with a dagger.

“I-is that a skull?” John squinted, head moving forward to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

“Friend of mine.” Sherlock answered, looking a lot like a guilty twelve year old, “Well, when I said friend-”

“What do you think then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs. If you'll be needing two, that is.” She smiled at them, glancing down to John's left hand.

“What? Of course we'll be needing two.” John glared at Sherlock, wondering if he'd told her otherwise.

“Oh, we take all kinds here.” She assured him, “Mrs. Turner next door has married ones.” She said soothingly. John blanched at Sherlock, looking like a beached whale as he waited for the man to tell her that they weren't together. He just looked away, seemingly oblivious to the suggestion. He rolled his eyes, and watched the woman walk across the room.

“Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made.” She tutted, going into the kitchen and trying to make the place more presentable.

John sighed, “So Mike told me you could identify a software designer by his tie and a shuttle pilot by his left thumb?” Sherlock nodded, as though John had given him the time of day. John gave him an incredulous look, rolling his eyes. “You were boasting, yeah?”

“I can read your military past in your leg and your brother's drinking in your phone.” He offered, raising a brow and giving a cocky smirk.

“Speaking of which, how did--” John was cut off by the woman coming in with the newspaper.

“So then, what about these serial suicides, Sherlock. Figured that'd be right up your way. All three exactly the same.” Apparently people had purposely programmed their nanobots to tear their insides up instead of fixing them. The technology of nanobots had been a massive improvement. from pills, seeing as how substances could be overdosed on and easily abused. These were works of programmed carbon which went in, fixed cells after most anything that wasn't instant death, and any extras simply passed through the system. Well, usually.

“Four.” He said, police sirens wailing down the the road, specialized thrusters on the hovercraft loud enough for anyone to hear one moving at maximum speed. “There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time.” He had a smirk, like he was happy about this.

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson asked, looking only moderately alarmed by this new development while a man burst in, though no one let him in. Maybe the door had still been unlocked?

“Where?” Sherlock asked, face a mask of annoyed indifference.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” He answered, catching his breath from running up the stairs.

“What's different. You wouldn't have come if there weren't something different.” He was talking faster, as if he was keeping up with racing thoughts.

“You know how they never leave notes?” the officer asked, and Sherlock gave an “and so...” expression, “This one did. Will you come?”

“Who's on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

“Anderson won't work with me.”

“Well, he won't be your assistant.”

“I need an assistant.” He insisted, as if the Yarder could just poof one from nowhere.

“Will you come.” He repeated, and sherlock sighed.

“Not in a police craft. I'll be right behind.” He relented, apparently either having solved the assistant problem in his head, or not needing one that bad after all.

“Thank you.” An he sounded like he'd just been told backup had arrived in a tough fight that made winning effortless. Maybe it had, if what the man had said on his website were true. For his part, Sherlock was stock still until the man left, when he exploded into motion, jumping a clear foot into the air at least and spinning round while he was up.

“Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note? Oh it's Christmas.” He grabbed up his scarf and his coat as he did twirls around the room. Looking much like the average ballerina, that were making John dizzy watching. “Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food.”

“I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper.” She called, though the smile on her face said that she would certainly be making him dinner, if he ate it or not.

“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!” John hadn't even said he would move in yet, and now this man was treating him as though they were old buddies.

“I'll make you that cuppa; just sit down and rest your leg.” She said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Damn my leg!” He bellowed, an embarrassing spike in pain at the reminder causing him to shout. “I'm sorry...”

“It's alright, dear. I understand. I've got a hip.” She gave him a motherly smile, and he nodded back, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

“I'll have that tea now then, if it's all the same.”

“Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper.”

“And a couple of biscuits, if you've got them.” He smiled, already knowing what her response would be.

“Not your housekeeper!” she called, though he had no doubt when she came back up, there would be biscuits for him on a small plate next to his tea. He picked up the newspaper, turning to the article about the so called serial suicides, when that deep rumbling voice interrupted his thought.

“You're a doctor. In fact, you're an Army doctor.” He stated, and John nodded. “Any good?”

“Very good.” He said defensively. He'd once patched a man up with sand and his left sock.

“Seen lots of injuries then? Violent, bloody deaths?”

“Yes.” John smirked, liking where this was going, even when he shouldn't.

“Trouble, too I bet.”

“Eyup.”

“Want to see some more?” He offered, and John's smirked grew into a toothy grin.

“Oh God yes.” He replied, getting up and limping after Sherlock.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson! I'll skip out on that tea!” John called, meeting her at the bottom of the stairs.

“Both of you?” She looked like someone had just kicked her puppy.

“Impossible suicides! Four of them! No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!” He grabbed her by the shoulders, places a kiss on her cheek that makes her blush like a schoolgirl, “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!” John smiled, and was ready to follow him, blood pumping through his veins like it hadn't in years, even in battle when the world blurred around him again.

* * *

 

He was in the soft blue glow of the machine that had made all of this possible. He pushed the lid open, figuring he must have hit the three hour safety limit. Longer than that and people started getting side effects at an exponentially higher rate. He growled into the darkness of his own flat, not wanting to stop. He still had a residual smile on his face from the thrill of the chase, of a battle ready to be fought. He almost reset the timer, counting down from 21 hours until it would work again so that he could get back more quickly, coma be damned. His phone beeped, set next to him on the table. It was either Harry, or his psychologist, and as soon as he saw proper grammar in the text, he new it was the former—or at least her automated messaging system.

Dear Mr. Watson,  
We have received transmission that you have begun the use of your Soldier Simulator © and would like to set up an appointment with you to discuss the results. Please come in at your leisure, but if at all possible tomorrow morning at 9 AM, where we have you penciled in.

To be fair, he had nothing else to do during that time, seeing as his simulator wouldn't be ready by then and he didn't really have much of a life, save scrolling through the internet and trying to keep from going utterly mad. He made himself a relatively indulgent dinner, spaghetti with actual sauce and even meatballs, and called to say he'd be in by then if not earlier.

* * *

 

“So then you chose the detective story?” She asked, early morning light filtering in through lacy blue curtains. She clearly disapproved of his choice, but couldn't really say anything, as it was against the entire purpose of letting the patient decide his or her own scenario.  
“I did.” He answered, pouring himself a cup of tea from the kettle she always kept in the space between their chairs. She refused to have a couch, said that it was too cliché, and that having the chair meant there was more eye contact. Apparently helped PTSD sufferers.  
“Could you tell me why? I mean, out of all of them, you chose one that specifically said it was due to be taken down. There are eleven billion people in this world, John, and seven of them, including yourself, are still using that particular program.”  
“What? There's no way!” Why would other people choose to either go back to the war, or to live boring lives that could easily be done outside of the machine?  
“Most of those who use it come out worse than when they went in, John. Though it's an oddity that you even went the full three hours without quitting out.”  
“Why would I? That was the most fun I've had in years. Bloke's a bit eccentric, yeah, but he seems like a decent fellow.” John had liked him well enough, and he was looking forward to getting to be on a case with him.  
“He wasn't programmed to show emotion, John. He's was intended to repel you away from burying feelings aside. He was created for you to hate him.” She seemed alarmed that he didn't. He panicked, wondering if this would get him sent to one of the camps.  
“Well, he seemed nervous enough about me moving in with him, and excited about solving the murder, and right proud of himself for figuring out about my being a veteran.” He argued, convinced that she had it wrong. She wasn't a computer engineer after all, but a psychologist.  
“I...perhaps there was some sort of glitch.” she offered, her game suddenly thrown off. “Maybe you were imprinting emotions that you expected, rather than seeing what was actually there.”  
“No, I've been out a while, but I'm not making up emotions. And it didn't seem very glitchy.” He was being defensive of a computer program, and it didn't even seem odd. Maybe he was going mad.  
“I...well, I'm glad it's working for you then.” She smiled, making a note to speak to someone about this.  
“What will happen to She—the simulation, when it's discontinued?” He asked, dread building in his stomach.  
“We aren't sure. There's never been a simulation so wholly ineffective that we've had to. I'll look into it, though, and see what I can do.” She put a hand on his, and he grit his teeth. He didn't want her to kill Sherlock, or “they” whoever the fuck they was. He may not be a real person, but John found himself attached all the same.  
He had become emotionally attached to a computer program.


End file.
